God bless Grammy Dianne and Grampy Doug. We just got back from a week of skiing, hot-tubbing and bag-burger-eating in Sugarloaf Maine, a very special place that is blessed with an almost religious population of people who love it more than anywhere else.

The parking lot is filled with cars and trucks from all over with personalized plates (LOAFER, THELOAF, LOAFLVR…), and the hot tubs are filled with devotees who have been skiing the mountain for as long as they can remember.

See, there is a long-celebrated system that has been perfected by Justin’s brother and sisters, the new-parent skiers who have come before us. It's this system that makes the ten-hour drive worthwhile.

Baby visits with Grammy Dianne and/or Grampy Doug while parents ski in two-hour chunks, with mom coming in to feed baby when needed. I would never before have carried a walkie-talkie while skiing...

(<BLEEP!!> “I’M ON THE QUAD!! WHAAT? <BLEEP!!> YEAH!! WHERE ARE YOU?? <BLEEP!!> I’LL MEET YOU AT THE LODGE! <BLEEP!!> AT THE LODGE!!”)

...but when you’re breastfeeding and long-distance charges negate the cellphone, good manners go out the window.

We even thought of callsigns (“Milkmaid and Big Daddy to L’il Pirate, come in L’il Pirate…”) but decided against it for the benefit of those trapped on the lift with us.

Despite the wet-noodle legs that follow nine months of pregnancy, Sugarloaf was a pretty effective methadone to start weaning us from the mountains of the west. Perfect blue skies, lovely springy snow and plenty of sunshine as well as cousins, who at almost one year old are total party animals. He was quite entranced and took copious notes.

+++++

Evan is growing so fast.

Every new parent brags about this – it’s in the rulebook. You have to share developmental pride with parent-friends, while making non-parent-friends nod and smile but secretly groan (“Our little bruiser is only three months old and he’s already outgrown his 6-month onesies! Isn’t that the most darling thing you’ve ever heard!”).

He’s so boisterous, so noisy, kicking and squirming.

He’s found his voice, and delights in squealing, chirping and blowing spit bubbles. He understands us now when we imitate him, which he finds hilarious. He says aaa-GOO! and I say aaa-GOO! Then he says ooo-WWHHAAA! and Justin says ooo-WWHHAAA!... the louder, the better.

Especially when you need a bit of a siesta during the ski day to give the wet noodles a break.

And what happened then...? Well, in Who-ville they say that the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day!

This isn’t to say I am now or ever was a grinch. Not exactly.

Here’s what I think happens when you become a parent. If you’re lucky enough to find a true partner in life, you figure you know what love is. You think you know the boundaries of what you’re capable of feeling.

Then you have a baby, and you exist at what you think is your very highest level of fulfillment, all the time.

But today, as we took Evan to the doctor for his first shots, I felt something I have never felt before.

My unknowingly small heart grew three sizes - at least - when we heard his ‘pain cry’ for the first time. The shots are into the muscle of each leg, and they ache quite badly afterwards.

I’ve just now gotten up after four hours of marathon cuddling, the only surefire way to give the boy the best possible sleep he can get no matter how upset or uncomfortable he is. Snoring cheek-to-bosom, his happy place. I would have rocked for ten times that long if I thought it would make him feel better.

Evan's first pain, as ordinary as it was, made us both feel the gravity, the protectiveness of parenthood. A delayed reaction. Perhaps you don't feel it at first with a newborn because you're too overwhelmed with learning to reflect.

At the risk of sounding trite, I must say: the world looks different to me now, with this new-sized heart. Lighter and darker all at the same time.

Sometimes, Evan wakes up restless at 6 AM. Even if he’s eaten himself into oblivion only an hour before, the first light of the day seeps into the room leaving him alert and unsure of what he wants.

I peek over the edge of his crib, and he looks at me, wide-eyed and grinning. I peel off his nightshirt and lift his warm, clammy body into bed beside me.

We sing our good morning song, which makes him smile. I wrap myself around him, and we chat for a bit about what we’ll do that day while he curls his toes around my fingers.

We fall back to sleep for a while, and I wake up with his breath next to my face. Then dad joins us, and we tell him all about our night.

Right after telling you about the brutal first few weeks of parenthood, people will tell you to treasure this time. I never quite understood that. Do you want me to bear it, or love it? But now that I’m here, it makes sense despite the mixed messages.

Today is Evan’s two-month birthday, and I’m already feeling nostalgic.

I know I’m going to miss our morning cuddles as he grows. There will be other rewards, but we’ll never be as physically intimate as we are right now. He needs me, and I need him. Even in the middle of the night, three feedings in, it’s magic.

Ten years ago today, Justin and I met. We’ve been together ever since. Valentine’s Day has always been a non-event, and even our wedding anniversary just marks the day we had a great party. This day is our milestone.

It was spent patting and rocking a gassy little boy, bless him. We took turns wolfing down supper. I’m covered in spit-up, and Justin’s been catching up on laundry. Later tonight, we’ll follow the routine that’s been best - Justin sleeping in the other bedroom to rest for mornings with Evan, while I take the nightshift.

Only people with kids will believe me when I say this: we’re having fun. We’re falling deeper and deeper in love with our son, and that means a lot of laughter. We’re thrilled with every new chirp and gurgle, amazed at all the clothes that are already too small. And we’ve got bottomless sympathy for him when he has a tough day.

As I write, the boy has finally stopped stirring and breathes heavily in his crib, exhausted. Time for me to steal a few moments with Justin, even if it is just the two of us listening to Evan snore. A happy anniversary is knowing we’ve done good, whether it involves a fancy dinner or not.

And the sounds of our son let us know for sure.